


the kind of look i can get used to

by VoidfortheVoidless



Category: Original Work
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, F/F, My OCs, just a little drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 04:21:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20186167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoidfortheVoidless/pseuds/VoidfortheVoidless
Summary: A post came across my Tumblr dashboard (link at the end), and I decided to write a drabble based on the paragraph I wrote in response. This story is purely self-indulgent, and completely original. All the characters are my OCs, and the events and places are purely fictional. If you enjoy it, and maybe want to see more about Aspen and Gwen, please leave a nice comment and some kudos! All constructive criticism is greatly appreciated!





	the kind of look i can get used to

The clouds were moving across the sky, grey and heavy, chasing the sinking sun. Rain was going to be a problem you would have to worry about, but right now, your stomach was roiling at the thought of another night without anything to eat. Food now seemed like nothing more than a dream, and you hadn’t managed to grab anything more satisfying than a roll when you left your house two days ago.

The memory of your desperate flight made panic surge within you, a fear borne out of a loss of safety. Your father, eager to get his last daughter out of the house, had arranged “a perfect match!” He had said, telling you that your future husband was successful, well-known in his circle, and well-established in the city. “He has a house, land, servants, even a villa in France!” He failed to mention that this friend of his was as well known in the local bars, periodically thrown out for his outrageously lewd and violent behavior. 

Maybe those sorts of things didn’t matter, alongside a reputation for a golden touch. The sorts of things that only mattered after the fact, after it was too late. Too late to turn back, too late to cry out, “No!” like you had after learning of your husband-to-be’s disposition.

It was too late to turn back now, back to the brief comfort of your home. You wouldn’t go back there, not if it meant being wed to a man on the edge of one temper tantrum turned fatal.

You had escaped out the back of the house, just hours before the dinner that was to celebrate your joyous engagement. You were going to meet him that night, and now you hoped to never have to see his face.

As you trudged along the road, now more mud than dirt, you thought about the funny picture you must make; worn leather boots several sizes too big, a cloak more patch than not covering dirty trousers, and hair mussed almost completely out of the elaborate hairstyle you had put it in for the party you never went to.

This far out from the edge of the city, you had passed nothing but fields and the occasional barn for hours, but you were nearing what looked like an actual farm, with a walled orchard not far from the road. 

You could see tall trees peeking out over the bricks, tempting you with their spots of red. 

Taking a single apple couldn’t hurt, you thought, and your stomach grumbles in agreement. 

You peer around, walking towards the high wall, but didn’t see anyone. In fact, the entire area seemed unusually empty, but it was nearly sunset. They were probably already in their house, getting ready to eat. 

Your stomach grumbles again, louder.

Thick vines wind up the wall, clinging to the brick in no particular pattern, but reaching up and over the top. This is your way in.

You fling the sides of your cloak over your shoulders, grappling for a foothold in the mass of leaves. The vines hold for the most part, only snapping a few times as you clamber up the side of the wall.  
At the top, you can almost touch the nearest branch, and if you just lean over a little, you could pluck the nearest apple, ripened to red by its position on the tree, but yet untouched by the birds. 

You reach, and reach, and reach-

And grasp it! You look at your outstretched hand in triumph, forgetting how far you are leaning over the ground below, and feel yourself lose your balance.

You grab frantically for the vines hugging the wall, dropping the apple as you clutched onto them, willing your heart to slow its galloping pace.

As your breathing slows, you look down at the ground where the apple lay, taunting you in the grass. The vines stop just a few feet from the ground, but if you are careful, you will be able to make if down, retrieve the apple and maybe a few others, and climb back up and out of the orchard.

You start lowering yourself, hand over hand, glancing down at the ground to make sure the apple was still there, until your boots touch the grass.

You bend down to pick up the apple, and hear “Stop!” ring out across the orchard. You freeze, bent down, and you swear your heart will never beat again.

As you look up, you see a burly-looking woman striding towards you, hands fisted at the sides of her apron. You stand up sharply, and shrink back towards the wall. Maybe you can climb up before she reaches you. Maybe there are more people on the other side of the wall waiting for you. Maybe they’ll turn you in to the local authorities as a thief. Maybe your father will be called in to answer for you. Maybe you will never have the future that was right in front of you, right there, like the apple, taunting you in its unattainability.

Seeing you flinch towards the wall, the woman stops.She looks you up and down, takes in your dirty, tattered clothing and your filthy hair. She looks at your face, squints, and steps closer. You grab fistfuls of the cloak at your side, feeling ashamed and hopeless.

“Shh, it’s okay,” she reassures you. “I’m not going hurt you.”

You look at her as she takes a step closer, peering at your face. She must see something in your expression, because she relaxes, and wipes her hands on her apron.

“Now, then,” she says, looking you in the eyes, “are you going to tell me why you are in my orchard?”

You stand stock-still, not knowing how to answer. Your stomach grumbles again, louder than you’ve ever heard it before, and she startles, and then laughs.

“I guess that’s my answer!” She smiles. She looks at you again, face serious. “When was the last time you ate?”

“I-” You whisper, and clear your throat. You don’t need to tell her everything. Just enough that she might take pity on you and let you go, maybe with the apple. Maybe not.

“The last meal I had was two days ago,” you said, standing a little straighter. “My engagement night. I-I didn’t know him.”

She looked at you for a long time, seeming to stare a hole in your face. Then, suddenly, she let go of her apron, brushed down the front of it, and smiled at y

“Do you have a place to stay?” She asks you. 

You shake your head.

“Are you willing to do a little work?” She asks, “In exchange for a warm meal and a roof over your head?”

You stare at her, not really believing what she said.

“I-I don’t know if I can-” You stammer, blood rushing in your ears as you try to decide whether she is trying to trick you or not.

“Sure you can,” she declares, “I was just starting to prepare dinner. If you do a good job sweeping the barn, you can sleep out in the loft tonight. There’s plenty of hay, so it will be warm.”

You start to shake your head, unwilling to put yourself in a position that you can’t get out of, but she stops you.

“It’s going to be a wet night,” she warns, looking up at the darkening sky. “All the hay has been taken in already, and you won’t find any other shelter for miles. You’d best take my offer.”

She looks at you, hands on her hips, a determined smile on her face.

As long as I stay in the barn, I can leave as soon as it’s light, you think.

You smile nervously at her, unclenching your fists.

“I guess it’s okay for one night,” you concede.

She smiles, turns around, and starts walking across the grass.

“Follow me,” she beckons at you, “and bring the apple with you.”

You bend down and pick up the apple, turning it over in your palm, before following her out of the orchard.

She leads you across another muddy path, farther away from the road, and towards a warm-looking cottage. A few chickens peck at the ground near the small red door.

“Let’s get you a bite to eat before you faint,” she says, opening the door and gesturing you inside. You gingerly step inside and close the door behind you.

The air inside is warmer, and you can smell bread cooking.

Your stomach suddenly makes its presence known, rumbling loudly as you feel lightheaded from hunger.

She laughs, handing you a hunk of bread. Your mouth floods with saliva, anticipating the first bite.

“Eat those,” She tells you, pointing at the apple you are still holding in your hand. “Then you can sweep.”

You bite into the roll, chewing as slowly as you can to savor the taste of fresh bread.

She leans back against the kitchen table, gazing at you with something more than concern in her eyes.

“Take your time, the barn will still be there when you finish,” she laughed.

You nodded, biting into the apple and feeling the juice run down your chin.

“My name is Anna,” she said, looking at you expectantly.

“My name is Gwendolyn,” you tell her, embarrassed. Anna raises her eyebrows. “He-my father had…high hopes for me,” you grimaced. “I didn’t want the life he wanted for me. I left.”  
Anna nodded, seeming to understand.

You gnawed at the apple, trying to get as much off as you could, and Anna straightened up. 

“Aspen should be coming back from Walter’s field now,” she said, looking out the window. “She can show you where the broom is and where to sweep.” She craned her head, peering out at the muddy path.

“Oh!” She exclaimed, “there she is!”

You stand beside her to peer out the window, and you see a tall figure walking towards the house, carrying a pile of straps over their shoulder.

Anna moves to the entrance and opens the door.

“Aspen!” She calls to the figure, “We have company! Come introduce yourself!”

As the figure gets closer, you can make out long, brown hair gathered into a messy braid swinging back and forth with her gait. Long legs stride confidently towards the doorway, and rolled-up sleeves reveal strong, wiry arms.

“Anna!” She calls out. “I’m not ready for company! I have to put away the bridles and wash up!”

Anna laughs and pulls you by the arm until you’re standing beside her in the doorway, and Aspen looks you up and down, somewhat startled by your ragged appearance.

“Aspen, this is Gwendolyn. Gwendolyn, Aspen,” Anna smiles.

Aspen extends her hand towards you, presumably to shake, then seems remembers how dirty her hand is.

“Gwendolyn is going to help you clean up in the barn before dinner, and then she’s staying the night,” Anna tells her.”I want you to show her where the broom is.”

Aspen glances at Anna, then back to you, and shrugs.

“Come with me,” she says, turning back away from the door. “I’ll show you the barn.”

You scramble to follow her, calling a “thank you” back to Anna, who is waving in the doorway.

“Come back hungry!” She calls after you.

Aspen leads you down the path to a large barn, and takes you inside.  
There’s a hallway inside the barn, mostly empty stalls leading down either side, and a larger open area at the far end. A rope hangs down from a trapdoor in the ceiling, probably leading up to the hayloft.

“Here you are,” she says, handing you an old broom, wisps coming out of the end.

“Thank you,” you murmur, grasping it tight as you survey the inside of the barn.

“So,” Aspen says, nonchalantly, hanging the bridles up on hooks on the wall near the stalls, “what brings you out here? Not many people wander out in this area.”

“I’m traveling,” You hedge, unsure of how much you should tell her. “I- miscalculated how far the walk was going to take me.”

“Uh-huh,” Aspen agrees, not looking at you. “By yourself. Without any luggage.”

You glare at her, trying to determine if she is making fun of you.

“I am!” You insist, angrily sweeping the floor, dust flying up into the air.

“Alright. I’ll let you have that,” Aspen shrugs, turning towards one of the stalls. She reaches over the stall door, snapping her fingers, and a horse lumbers into view and nuzzles at her hand. She scratches the horse under its head.

Silence stretches between you, and you continue sweeping.

“I didn’t want to get married,” you blurt out, looking hard at the ground. The scritching noises stop, and you look up. Aspen is gazing at you, something inscrutable in her expression.

You blush and look back down at the broom, and continue sweeping.

“Old? Ugly?” She asks.

“Huh?” You look up again, puzzled.

“The man,” she clarifies. “Was he old? Or ugly?”

“I suppose so?,” you say, “but mostly, he was just...a man. A-a strange man.”

Aspen’s eyes widen and she makes a small “ah” sound, turning back to the horse.

“Strangers don’t typically make the best family,” she says.

“Sometimes, family doesn’t make the best family,” you say, scuffing your boots against the dirt floor.

She gives you a long look not unlike the one Anna gave you in the orchard, as if making up her mind about something.

After a minute, she clears her throat, and beckons you over to the stall.

“Come here,” she tells you, reaching out for your hand. “Have you ever been kissed by a horse?”

You shake your head, slowly walking over and placing your hand in hers, looking warily at the horse.

“No…” You say, and then the horse lowers its head and snuffles at your open palm. The long hairs on its chin tickle your hand and you laugh, jerking your hand away.

Aspen laughs, still scratching the horse around the ears, and just looks at you.

“This old boy,” she says, patting the horse’s neck, “is part of my family. I chose him myself. Sometimes the family you choose is better than the one you’re born with.”

You don’t really know what to say, watching her rub at the horse’s neck.

The muscles in her arms shift under tanned skin as she strokes back and forth.

She has whisps of hay stuck in her braid, and the leather cord at the end of the plait is ready to fall out. There’s a ring of sweaty dirt around the edge of her face, as if she spent hours out in a field. Her posture looks effortlessly confident.

She turns back to look at you, and you blush, embarrassed at being caught staring.

“Do you have anywhere to travel to?” She asks.

“No, I was going to figure it out as I went,” you admit.

“That’s pretty dumb. Are you from the city?” She laughs, shaking her head.

“...Yes,” you reply, “but just the edge! We have a garden, and horses for our carriage, and I’ve been learning how to cook a little.”

Aspen scoffed at you, shoulder shaking with laughter. “You sound like you had it pretty easy.”

You blush harder, turning back to sweeping, furiously throwing dust and bits up hay into the air.  
“You’d better stop,” Aspen gasped, trying to catch her breath. “You’re just making it hard to breathe in here.”

You glare at her, stilling the broom and standing rigidly in the middle of the aisle.

“Anna’s probably done with the food,” Aspen says, patting the horse one last time. “Let’s go help her eat it all.”

She starts walking out of the barn and you trail after her, still embarrassed at your apparent ineptitude at living in the country.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the Tumblr post that inspired this short drabble:  
https://jennettically.tumblr.com/post/186828614145/mrblueremeberyou-jennettically-argumate  
I hope you enjoyed my little story!  
(I kind of want to write more but school starts soon and I major in a writing field AND I'm head editor for the newspaper so.....I don't know if that will happen)


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